“What are you driving at?” he cried out.
“This Binhart hunt is ended,” repeated Copeland, and in the eyes looking down at him Blake saw that same vague pity which had rested in the gaze of Elsie Verriner.
“By God, it’s not ended!” Blake thundered back at him.
“It is ended,” quietly contended the other. “And precisely as you have put it—Ended by God!”
“It’s what?” cried Blake.
“You don’t seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is dead—dead and buried!”
Blake stared up at him.
“Is what?” his lips automatically inquired.
“Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in Arizona. He’s buried there.”
“That’s a lie!” cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair.